Chrysanthemums
by Dalena Saffi-Ann
Summary: The hottie that was Bruce's date for tonight isn't as much of a blonde as he thought. And although she was maybe just a little bit further from his type than he'd usually go for, she knows exactly what he likes in bed. It's a shame about her occupation though... PWP, Bruce Wayne/OC and implied slash.


She isn't his type- but in this moment, Bruce doesn't care. Her legs are wrapped around his waist, gripping so tight it almost ruins his concentration as he kisses her on the ravaged journey to the master bedroom of his penthouse. Her arms, instead of being wrapped around his neck, are pulling in his hair and gripping, moving flesh at the scruff of his neck. He's harder than he's been for a while at this stage with his previous dates, cock pushing up into the tight cotton of her dress at her perfect ass.

When he throws her on the bed, her knees are bent and her legs are fairly closed compared to the other women he's had here, the dress has ridden further up her thighs, cotton sleeve hanging off her shoulder, and Bruce thinks she's delicious. Her toes hit the bed as she opens just that little bit more for the playboy to see soaked black panties and instead of focusing on that sliver of covered cunt, his eyes flit to the way her calf bulges. His hand first trails to the rock-hard muscle and pushes- pushes down into the never-swaying flesh.

"Mm, you like that?" Her purring voice is British, with no particular state county twang to it, and Bruce feels he's hit gold. He sits up on the bed with her as she grips his hands, trails it up her thigh. For a second, Bruce thinks she's going to be incredibly pretentious and bring it to her clit, yet she places it the bulge just above her knee and tenses. Her thighs are unbelievably muscled, and Bruce cannot help but moan and squeeze underneath and on top as he realizes she's built like a bloke.

"Occupation?" he breathes the shaky breath out, as he crosses his legs and pulls them both onto his lap. He wants nothing but to sink his cock between where the fat on the insides of her thighs is, and for her to tense around him as he fucks between the muscle and tissue.

"I'm a journalist, silly." She sighs as he pulls hard on a particularly sensitive spot. He grimaces- Bruce hates the press and what they've done to Gotham, to criminals, to himself and his parents. But right now, he's not concerning himself with trivia. "But if you want the answer that really matters, I moonlight as a wrestler." He bites his lip, and the image of her in the ring is undeniably sexy. He's so hard it hurts, and he wants to be inside her. Now.

She leans back against the headboard, and in one swift movement, he has the dress halfway up her ass and her thigh's spread lewdly. She bites down on a lipstick-free bottom lip with a surprised gasp. "Please don't tell me you've riled me up this much to play nice with me, Brucie." The nickname sends a chill and a memory down his spine.

Yet he doesn't let it affect him once he starts pressing kisses to the backs of her knees, the inside of her thighs. "I'd love to fight you in the ring." The image makes Bruce moan against the muscle he's soothing with his tongue. "I can't choose between riding your jaw or dislocating it."

"Both." Bruce rasps in a moment of debauchery, biting into the skin of her inner thigh. She gasps, laces fingers into inky curls and pulls, hard. Her arousal is a potent scent, his senses alight from the scent of illicit sex. His teeth tremor with the sound threatening to escape his throat, and his pants are threatening to burst the zipper from how hard he is. Unable to draw out the power-play, he rolls his tongue up and over her slit, tasting her through yet another thin layer of cotton.

"Don't- ah- tease me, bitch." Her heels dig into his back, pushing his shoulder-blades closer and Bruce mouths at the cotton, opens his mouth and puts light pressure on both her clit and cunt with his teeth. She practically growls, bucking up, seemingly unafraid of the dangerous position. "Just fuck me already." He's pulling off her panties with his teeth, following them down on his knees to the end of the bed and spitting them amongst his discarded suit jacket. The journalist's eyes flutter closed, and she's more turned on than she has been in her whole life.

"Patience is a virtue," he growls as his knees land on the bed, hands pushing her legs open for his mouth go to between her thighs. But instead of flicking her folds with his tongue, he goes to biting at the soft, yet hard insides of her thighs. She bucks and hisses in frustration.

"I've been patient and soft all night, you insolent rich-boy cunt. I don't expect to have to hold a facade now." Bruce feels himself get harder, and he's shocked that he can. She's a dominant, and Bruce laps up the lewdly aggressive attention like a greedy kitten. She winces as his teeth dig in, and he apologetically pulls away, cursing himself for the fault. Her face is flushed in breathless ecstasy, and her eyes flutter open to meet his. She growls, and he's mesmerised by the sound. "Fucking do that again, or I will dislocate your jaw and ride your face until I finish thrice."

Bruce bucks against the mattress, and it's almost like she knows exactly what he wants. In this moment, he isn't the playboy billionaire that had her as a date in _Maria's_. He's the Batman. He's going to have her as the man who can throw a punch in Kevlar gauntlets and pin someone underneath them in a flurry of cape and black mask. And she's going to love it. He bites the opposite side, pulls at the flesh with incisors, doesn't either bother sucking. Her hands are in his hair, and she's mewling, gasping and pulling so hard he's rutting against pressure.

When his lips finally move to her cunt, he can taste her just from pressing his lips to her slit. She's soaked and his tongue graces her sex, before spreading her open. Her gasp, the way his hair is pulled and her head lolling back on the headboard is enough to tell him she's painfully eager. He laps at her thrice more before moving to suck at her clit, dancing a hand from her thigh up to sink a finger inside.

She's so tight, and he practically fucks the mattress and groans into the sensitive bud when she clenches around him. She's mewling above him, snarling like a caged animal, and he thinks she must be close when she's slick enough to fit two fingers in. He pulls away to screw her on them. "How often do you fuck, miss tabloid?" he coyly asks her the question like a boy through thick lashes. He watches as her hips gyrated on his stilled fingers and her head tips back, in a frustrated groan.

"I don't." She pants. "Not frequently." And then his mouth is on her again and she hasn't got the coherent train of thought to answer properly. She cums, and Bruce has the urge to join her. Her eyelids flutter, soft ginger hair bounces and a tear of swear rolls from her forehead to her nose. She looks a perfect mess with her pale mouth open in a scream and her hips bucking wildly, locks splayed, brow perspiring. It's a natural event, and Bruce wants to keep her in his closet with his cowl and Kevlar.

She's breathless when he licks his fingers clean. Bruce is thinking of reconsidering his type- fucking the next bleached airhead will feel like a cop out, and he just knows it. Both adrenaline and a certain alien urge that he's doing something naughty like a schoolboy catches him when she pulls him up by his hair to kiss her taste from him, and it's hard and devouring, but unlike the common women who do this to him after he's finished them off. She's biting on the supple flesh, and he almost yelps at the unexpected pain. The yelp subsides into a moan when hands grip his ass, and her breathlessness dissolves into chuckles when he straddles one of her bare thighs and his clothed cock twitches into it through fabric.

He doesn't ask if she's on birth control, mainly because that is the unspoken condition you come and even sit with Bruce Wayne. He pulls down the zipper, tooth by tooth as she quite literally tears open his shirt. Buttons scatter to the floor, but he can barely register the noise before teeth are latching onto the nipple underneath the shirt, and electricity sinks through him when she bites. He's in black Calvin Klein's, rutting against her thigh as that mouth works sinfully away at the buds quite like a dominant man would. Man.

Did he just think man? She bites just a little too hard, and his reflex sends her down below him. But no quicker is she below is she on top. He doesn't know how, but in a flurry of arousal and constricting, bulging legs around his torso, he's below her, and she's pulling off her dress, slipping his cock out and sinking down onto him. His adrenaline rush is knocked from him as a helpless rush of pleasure renders him useless. She's almost as tight as a virgin, and Bruce can't help but think about her pain as she gasps and rolls her hips on top of him.

Yet she doesn't seem to feel any. The journalist's head tips back as she rides him, garbles obscenities and encouragement making his head swim, bucking up into her wet heat. She regains composure and looms over him, both hands pressed to his chest as her hips stop. Her hair forms curtains for them both, and the billionaire brings a hand to her hip to steady her body for his incessant thrusts and one goes to the strawberry curls, winding his hair with them and tugging. A hand goes to his nipple, flicking at the bud, and the other cradles his face. The gestures don't suit the look of malice on her face.

He snarls like an animal when she hits him the first time, and he can feel the blood running from a split in his lower lip, and a dull pain amongst the pleasure. They both moan in unison when her head ducks and laps a saliva-diluted trail from his chin. Her tongue at the open cavern of his mouth is jittery and rocking with the power of his thrusts, jolting to twine with his and crackling with electricity as she parts to whine and moan. Bruce doesn't care when she sits herself up on his cock and hits him again. His head snaps to the side, a forming dull ache in his cheek from a knuckle or a palm, he doesn't know. The girl is growling like something wild and untamed, rocking against him with renewed vigour as the blood drips from his chin to his jugular vein.

He feels a familiar, but at the same time, rare sensation inside him building, and instead of allowing her to draw it from him, he flips them back over again, pushing her thighs over his and sinking into her deeper. Her cries and bucks are more frantic, and her sex enclosing him is so slick. She's so turned on, contracting around him as if on the verge of another climax and Bruce thinks for a fleeting moment it's because she's split the lip and bruised the cheek of the man who's supposed to be pristine. Her blunt nails find purchase in his shoulders, and he drives them both deeper into the throes of ecstasy.

"You... You fuck like a girl, Wayne." A groan escapes him at the idea that she's fucked a girl before, before registering her words and attempting to correct her with a particularly hard thrust.

"Oh... Oh yeah?" His tone is a shot at demeaning, but it comes out broken and hot. He's the submissive in this game- bleeding down his neck and onto her chest, pert rosy buds bouncing with his every move. She moans like a cat in heat, and grabs his head to force it to her breast.

"Taste yourself." she demands, and there's something so broken yet so dominant in that tone that he can't refuse. His pace slows, head dipping to swirl a tongue around her nipples. She arches into his mouth, moans raw and hungry. There's no hint of fake to them but every inch of guttural. "Hit me." The demand surges right through him, and before any inch of morality or self-restraint is in his mind, a hand is snapping against her cheek. She groans something incoherent.

"Again, you worthless cunt!" His hips buck frantically into her, and his head, hazy from adrenaline and sex and blood, plays no part in his next action. He hits her harder, and he barely hears her cheek snap to the side. His eyes drift closed and when she leans up to kiss him, a bloodied split pair of lips colliding with his own, he's done. Her tongue finds his in his last moments when she leans back to moan her climax.

"Batman."

All he can see is white. He comes so hard that his eyes ball up, and even in blackness everything is white. The mention of his name, his daunting, unspoken and ridiculous name shoves him into perpetual bliss, and he can't believe he's hearing it.

When he comes down again, he's shocked and appalled. He tries to find a way to justify it, however she doesn't look at all embarrassed. A sly, demeaning smirk is on her lips. This isn't a woman moaning someone else's name in bed. This isn't a woman who thinks her fantasies are being brought to life by none other than Bruce Wayne. She knows. He's gasping, pushing himself up on his palms to pull out of her and tumble to the other side of the bed when she begins.

"I always knew you liked it, Bats. Is that what that armour is hiding, huh? That raging hard on I had in me moments ago behind that codpiece as you shove us against the wall and put a fist to our face?" Her voice still sounds threatening when it's breathless, and in his post-orgasm haze he still hears the implications of 'us'. 'Us'.

He's just fucked a criminal, and he doesn't know whether to be disgusted or exhilarated, or even whether his dick is spurring up again at that. "Oh, Mr. J would love to hear about this now, wouldn't he? His Batman, his pretty little Batman who loves my fist on his cheek, his mouth on my cunt, my talk when I come twice..." He's thinking who she could be now, unmasked and in such a postion. He knows who she is. That's dangerous, even for a criminal that plays the field a lot. Strawberry blonde, pretty and curvy, well muscled and British. That's almost all the criminals in Gotham out of the equation.

He's sat up abruptly, panting hard, and the temptation is to grab her and throw her to Gordon, no matter the circumstances. Shockingly, she gets off the bed, still naked, thighs dripping and picks up her dress. She pulls it over her head, shockingly casual for one who's just fucked Batman, and made herself on the radar for Arkham and the cops. There's no way she can be this side of crazy, or on the wrong side of half his rivals. "Here, here, Batsy. It's not the end, there's more fun to be had with you again."

His instincts kick in, and even though she's in progress of slipping on a pair of below-the-knee boots, he launches herself at her and pins her against his closed bedroom door. She stifles a giggle as all the breath is knocked from her, looking back into his eyes. Her pupils are so dilated they might as well be black, and as he tangles his hand in her locks, she presses against him. "I can't decide whether I want to fuck or fight you next time." She catches him off guard and pressed her bleeding lips to his chin for a minute, the dried blood still tasting of salt and musk.

In a sudden movement, Bruce is pushed off her and leant back towards the bed. The slip of his hazy mind allows him to be manoeuvred, and when he's pushing back, he's using his palms to steady himself on the foot of his master bed. "I'll see you soon, Batsy. We'll be keeping a close eye on you for now..." The speed on her as she whips on her other boot and picks up her panties from the floor dazzles him. And he's trying to spit out those same panties for the second time in the night when her legs are on either side of his hips. A firm hand pushes him down on his back, another one clasping the sex-tasting material in his mouth. A mouth goes to his ear, bites the earlobe before speaking in her English purr.

"Remember what I smell like sugar. You won't recognise me in costume." She presses a cheek to his lips, and when he's composed himself and sat up, the window is lying open and he hears little noise from outside. He doesn't even bother looking- he knows he'll meet her again and that she'll be long gone by now.

He can barely remember a name, but when he does in the morning following that sleepless night over a coffee, it's vibrant and sweet in his mouth like the scent of chrysanthemums. Asphixia.


End file.
